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on.”
    “Nothing round here!”
    Lord Cheriton sipped the ale that was put in front of him.
    “Excellent!” he said. “The more I see of Larkswell the more I like it!”
    “’Tis a very small place, sir.”
    “So I gather, but who are the big landlords? Perhaps I could find a farm on their land.”
    There was no reply.
    As if with an effort at concentration, Lord Cheriton said slowly:
    “Now someone did mention a name to me. What was it? Fowler? No, Farlow! Is there not someone called Farlow round here?”
    “There is. A Mr. Jeffrey Farlow, sir. He’s got a large house, but little land.”
    “That seems strange,” Lord Cheriton remarked. “Most people if they want a large house want land as well.”
    There was no reply as the landlord seemed suddenly intent on sorting out the bottles at the back of the bar.
    “What does Mr. Farlow do?” Lord Cheriton questioned.
    Looking only at the back of the man’s head, he was sure that he shivered.
    “No idea, sir, no idea at all,” he answered quickly.
    Lord Cheriton put down his half empty mug of ale and picked up his change.
    “Thank you very much, landlord. I am delighted to avail myself of your hospitality.”
    The man turned round.
    “If you’re thinking of staying here, sir, we can’t put you up! There ain’t a comer in the whole inn where we can accommodate anyone.”
    “Strange,” Lord Cheriton remarked. “It looks quite large from the outside.”
    “Deceptive, sir, very deceptive. You’d be surprised how few bedrooms we’ve got.”
    “I would,” Lord Cheriton replied, “but as it happens I am staying at Larks Hall.”
    He saw the man’s eyes widen and his mouth fall open as he walked out of the inn to join Nickolls outside.
    They walked back to Larks Hall, Nickolls leading his horse, and as they walked he asked Nickolls what he had noticed.
    “They’re frightened, sir,” he said. “When I went into The Dog and Duck there were several men there, usual village types, sitting round drinking, but when they saw me they all scuttled away as if they’d been told to do so.”
    “And the landlord?”
    “He couldn’t wait to be rid of me, told me there was no accommodation, and would have pushed me out through the door right away if I hadn’t insisted on having a drink.”
    It all fitted in with what the Prime Minister had told him, Lord Cheriton thought, the fear that the gangs evoked in the local people, even though they benefitted from the smuggled cargoes.
    He was quite certain that the innkeeper would be able to buy his brandy and his gin, which the smugglers called “geneva,” at a cheap price, and the whole village would pay little or nothing for their tea.
    At the same time the smugglers would impose a reign of terror that made every man frightened to open his mouth.
    Lord Cheriton had learnt before he left London that it was common in Kent and Sussex for farmers within ten miles of the sea to find one morning pinned to their stable door a request, for so many horses to be left ready bridled, their stable doors unlocked, the following night.
    “No farmer would dare refuse,” the Surveyor General of Customs had informed him.
    “He would be threatened?” Lord Cheriton had asked.
    “He would find his stacks or his crops or barns, burnt to the ground and his herd slaughtered.”
    The Surveyor General’s face was serious as he added,
    “That type of pressure is regarded by the smugglers only as the first mild reproach. Any man who refused would have his life to lose as well.”
    They reached Larks Hall and met Richard coming back from the direction of the stables.
    “Pender and I have rubbed down your horse, sir,” he said to Lord Cheriton. “Oh, you have another!”
    “This one is ridden by my servant, Nickolls,” Lord Cheriton explained. “Perhaps you would be kind enough to show him the way to the stables.”
    “Yes, of course,” Richard said.
    He went to the side of the horse to pat it and, as he did so, Lord Cheriton had